


Please Hold Your Applause

by btBatt



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Body Image, Eating Disorder, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btBatt/pseuds/btBatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, Patrick's gained a little weight back, but that <i>happens</i>, right? It wasn't....he hadn't realized how <i>much</i> until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

> This work is incomplete - there is no conclusion. I will not be finishing it, and for that I apologize, but I hope you enjoy what's here.

The Internet never gets to Patrick anymore. Not the tweets, not the blogs. They're all background noise, insubstantial. Easily ignored. They remind him of the voices in his head. They've always been there. If it isn't _Fatrick, Fatrick, welcome back,_ it's _we only want what’s best for you and being so heavy isn’t healthy._ It comes from all sides, even when he's feeling good about his weight. No big deal, just pick another question to reply to on Twitter, pick up a guitar to distract from the thoughts.

It isn’t until after a show, sweat permeating his t-shirt and making the leather jacket nearly unbearable, when they’re stuck between the venue and the buses, that he really gets it. Some fans are still here an hour after the show ended, and he’ll admit he’s a little impressed by them. Not only have they waited in line almost all day to get in, but they stayed later just for a chance to see Fall Out Boy face-to-face. Patrick really hates letting that kind of faith in the band go to waste.

They all stay out to sign at least a couple things, take a couple of flash-blinding pictures on iPhones in the dark. Andy and Joe melt away first as more kids flock to Pete and Patrick—and Patrick feels a twinge of guilt. Patrick thinks, _just one more,_ because he knows Pete’s not likely to go back without him—security be damned. He and Pete are separated by about a dozen kids crowding around them despite security’s best efforts anyway. Patrick can just barely pick out his friend’s braying laugh from across the expanse. The kid that approaches Patrick doesn’t say anything at first—which isn’t weird at all, a lot of kids get nervous after shows—and just hands over his ticket to be signed. Patrick’s got the sharpie pressed to the paper when the kid sighs.

“I lost, like, fifty pounds after I saw what you did during Soul Punk,” he mutters. Patrick nods and starts to smile…though the boy doesn’t actually look happy about what he just said.

“That’s amazing,” Patrick gushes anyway.

“It’s too bad you’ve gained it back,” he says, quietly and forced like it’s been burning him for days, just sitting at the back of his throat. Patrick’s stomach sinks. “It really…fuck. If that’s what happens—” He shakes his head and Patrick blinks, hands the ticket back numbly. The kid walks away, casting a look over his shoulder. A… _disappointed_ look.

Patrick feels sick.

There are a couple of girls in front of him now. They’re talking. Patrick starts to apologize, say he has to go now, walk away, Patrick starts to _something_ , but Pete’s suddenly at his elbow. He shoots the girls a crooked smile and tows Patrick away by the bicep until they’re out of the crowd. Patrick lets him. As soon as they’re in the clear, Pete puts a hand on Patrick’s back and nudges him faster.

“Rick, c’mon, you’re moving zombie-speed.” And Pete’s practically vibrating, shimmering around the edges of Patrick’s vision.

“We talkin’ _Dawn of the Dead_ original or remake?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. And. He kind of feels like dying. The point of contact between Pete’s hand and Patrick’s flesh burns. He’s suddenly so painfully aware of the extra fat around his body, clinging and jiggling where it really shouldn’t. He speeds up, though. Pete laughs after him.

“Think you just went through the whole evolution.”

But Patrick’s already on his and Andy’s bus. Patrick drops his duffel on the couch where Andy’s deeply zoned out in post-show meditation and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Door shut, locked, light on, shirt off, Patrick looks at himself. His eyes are wide and he’s flushed all the way down his (puffy) chest. And—

Oh. That’s. No wonder everyone’s…fuck. Patrick blinks at his reflection, at the way his arms don’t even hang straight down anymore but have to curve around his torso, the way the layers of fat restrict the mobility of his neck, and. Oh.

There it is, right there.


	2. Habit

It’s nothing like being a teenager again, nothing like snide comments between classes. It’s not even like before, with the sideburns and trucker caps, where there were still fans but nothing to be disappointed in because it was just how Patrick was.

This is the worst. This is the point where he’d lost the weight already, but gained it back. This is being inspiration and failing. This is.

This hurts. This hurts in a frenzied way that buzzes across Patrick’s skin and makes his stomach churn, makes him nauseous to even feel hunger.

He hides in his bunk that night, headphones in and back to the highway. Despite the deep sleep, he feels exhausted in the morning. Black coffee on an empty stomach empties him out in the most disgusting way, makes him feel a little better. Good enough to sit around in the lounge with Andy. Andy, who eats vegan substitutes that don’t even tempt Patrick a little bit.

Patrick puts his noise-reduction headphones over his ears but doesn’t turn on any music. His head hurts, his stomach starting to pinch and tighten with hunger even though he’s gone all of twelve hours without eating. Weak. What kind of a pig can’t even go a day without food?

After the buses are parked firmly in Seattle, pizza is ordered. There’s no show tonight, just beer and video games and phone calls back home. And pizza. And nobody even told Patrick they were ordering pizza because they just get the same toppings every time (they’ve got this down to a science after so many years). All of a sudden the aroma is there, way too tempting and so strong it’s nauseating.

Before he even knows what’s happening, he’s eaten two slices. Two. And Patrick knows off the top of his head that there are at least 480 calories in that. And that’s…okay. Patrick takes a deep breath, feels it in his full stomach. He can work with that. It isn’t too bad. Weight loss is portion control and while five hundred is more than anyone should eat in a meal, he can count that as three meals for today. He’s okay. There’s no reason to freak out.

That’s what he’s settled on, his mind is okay and his stomach asking for more, when Joe opens his mouth. Laughs, chuckles like Joe does when he’s stoned, and says something akin to Patrick inhaling pizza but Patrick’s ears are ringing.

Patrick laughs back, chokes a little as tears prick his eyes, and dismisses himself to the bathroom where he panics for a good fifteen minutes. _Doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself. _If anyone asks, I can just say I got sick from eating the fucking pizza too fast._

Patrick sighs, flushes clean toilet water away, and returns to the front lounge with an oversized hoodie, feeling all the world like a teenager hiding from the world.

Andy raises an eyebrow at him and Patrick just smiles, turns to the couch and starts cheering on Dirty in whatever ultimate showdown is occurring. Dirty never wins. Patrick grabs a bottle of water and thinks he can sympathize.


	3. Dessert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapters are all so short, but trust me when I say that's the best way for me to actually get you guys updates. Hope you're liking xoxo

The only ink Patrick even puts to his skin is from a pen. He gets busy, he gets distracted, and it’s nice to have a note in a place you can’t lose it. I.e. his ankle. For the past week, he’s been jotting down the calories in everything he eats. But the thing is that it’s not working. It’s…nothing’s happening. If anything, he’s getting bigger. He feels trapped all of the time, within his own body that won’t do what it’s supposed to, what Patrick’s urging it to do. Andy’s starting to shoot him weird looks, but he knows they have nothing to do with a change in appearance and everything to do with his sour mood. He doesn’t think anybody else notices the change. It’s different around crowds, like it’s always been. Put on a smile for the camera, autopilot some jokes with the guys and crew before a show. It’s only ever Andy, sharing a bus with Patrick during the days and some nights when they don’t have time for a hotel, that gets to see the morose zoning out and the hints of self loathing. So if Patrick retaliates by maybe avoiding Andy just a little bit, then it’s not his fault. People can take only so much of Patrick’s sulking before they get fed up with it, especially when there’s no apparent reason for it.

Then, okay. Patrick thinks he may be going to easy on himself. “Urge” may be too gentle. Maybe he needs to _demand_ change.

It’s been a week of frustration trying to avoid food, and it never works out either. There’s food everywhere, all of the time, and it’s too much of a social activity to be able to beg out every time. People would think he’s turned into an earlier version of Pete, disappearing back to his bunk, sulking in oversized hoodies. He’s unhappy, not a drama queen.

Patrick tries throwing up exactly once. Right after they leave a restaurant, right after he finds himself full, bloated, and back in his hotel room. He locks the main door as well as the bathroom door and cracks his knees against the tile on the way down. He spends twenty minutes down there, tickling the back of his throat with two fingers like the Internet had advised, and he gags and clenches his abdominal muscles, but he _doesn’t have a gag reflex_. His throat is still sore when he’s done, and the next night at the show he knows his singing’s off, knows he’s not into it because it hurts. And that’s unfair to the fans. He’s doing this for them, they shouldn’t have to suffer for it, for Christ’s sake.

Laxatives are much better. He invests in a box the next day, truck stop style and generic. Sadly, that means there’s no self checkout line and Patrick has to blush his way through the purchase just knowing that the cashier (a melancholy college boy with eyes too wide and observant to be locked behind the counter in a place like this) can see why he needs them, exactly why. The boy hands him his change, sliding it carefully from his hand to Patrick’s, going as far as to cup one hand underneath to catch any coins if they’re to fall. None clatter to the counter, but they brush fingers, and the boy’s are bony, slim steady; Patrick’s are short, round. The blush creeps its way up to his ears and he notices an open sketchbook off to the side. Patrick wants to stay for a moment, talk about the art, the strangely-accurate detailing in the sketchy style, wants to say that he likes it, but he takes his paper bag and shuffles away as fast as he can. His chest starts to loosen only after the box is open and a few of the pills swallowed with a gulp of water.

They don’t taste like anything on the way down. Hours later, though, when it’s dark and they’re stuck between pages, between state borders, between highway lines, it tastes like heavy metal in the back of his throat. It tastes kind of like the antithesis to Arma Angelus and there are no angels here, armed to the teeth and ready to fight. His stomach is a little uneasy in a way that makes him curl up in the lounge quietly and he feels the kind of accompanying disquiet inside of him that makes him want to hug Pete and never let go, reminds him of the angriest of the punk shows Joe ever dragged him to where the whole world was sick and the only thing to do about it was wail and beat on the walls.

Logistically, he knows that laxatives aren’t actually very effective. The food’s been digested already, he’s not honestly losing weight like this. He knows. At the same time, it feels good, the stomach cramps and sweating. It’s like the flip side of a cleansing flame. It’s like being wrung out, emptied. After the first night of alternating between his best impression of a gargoyle, stony and immobile, and dashing towards the bathroom, he doesn’t take multiple pills. He wants to— _God_ he wants to. He almost can’t wait until tour’s over, until he can go home and be alone and binge eat pills that exhaust him, and just sleep. Ultimately, he wants to sleep. It’s trumping his desire to be better these days. That’ll happen, but it’ll take time. He wants to sleep until then.

The point being that Patrick can only claim a stomach bug so many times. He only has to the once, because he’s knows that’s playing with fire, asking for trouble. Half a pill, though. That’s just enough to make him slightly nauseous, just enough to help convince him that he really doesn’t need to eat. Wrinkle his nose and say “no, thank you.”

It’s still not enough, because they attend dinners and go out with friends native to whatever city they’re in. And it’s not enough and Patrick still can’t make himself puke. _It’s not enough._

They get to see Travie tonight and, really, it’s been too long and Patrick is happy. He is _happy_ and the persistent pressure in his chest has dwindles when they embrace. They’re in some stupid sports bar and Patrick ends up sitting wedged between Pete and Travie and his smile doesn’t feel forced. He orders exactly what Pete does and thinks _I’ve been going hard, I can take a night and indulge_.

He eats all of it, plus half of the dessert Pete orders.


	4. Stage Fright

By the time they reach the venue, Patrick’s extremities are full of static and his mind is simply full. He feels sick because he _hasn’t_ taken a laxative and the room is so fucking hot. There’s too much blood in his fingertips, in his toes and his nose too, and the skin feels stretched and hot and all of his nerve endings are filled with sluggish fire. He also feels heavy and weighed down and he wants to sleep, but he keeps himself moving because he doesn’t know what else to do. His mind is a whir of _fuckfuckfuck why would I do that? I’m such a fucking—I’ve ruined everything today and I’d been doing so well I can’t believe….okay, no. It’s okay. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. I can fix this. Back on track right now and that won’t happen again. It’s okay._

Patrick tells himself in between the streams of self-slander and reassurances that he can’t sleep right now, even if that’s all he wants to do. That would fuck with his voice, and he needs to warm up. So he jiggles his leg to stay awake, to burn the calories, to feel the fat bouncing around his femur and punish himself with the reminder of how disgusting that is. He puts a towel around his shoulders as he paces and goes through the motions of warming up. _It’s okay, everything’s okay, we’re okay,_ he tells himself without the slightest idea what “everything” is or who “we” are.

Everyone’s in their own world, the way people tend to get before shows, but Patrick can feel Andy watching him. He’s sitting on the ground in front of a couch and he’s tapping his sticks on the carpet, and Patrick thinks he can see it stirring up little clouds of dust, but his eyes might be playing tricks on him. Andy’s eyes stay trained on the floor, but Patrick can still feel his gaze somehow. He’s probably right to be weirded out. Patrick’s been stonily immobile for almost a week, not enough energy in his veins to spend it so frivolously on anything besides appearances and shows.

Patrick’s limbs are shaking and he’s almost become unused to standing without the adrenaline from a crowd or the rise in blood pressure that comes with talking to an interviewer. He’s full though, painfully so, and gravity is angry with him, pulling him down down down and then the walls are on gravity’s side and—shit.

He stops pacing, and Andy actually looks up, slowly, cautiously, as Patrick stares at the walls. He blinks, thinks _I am so fat and they all know I’ve failed. The fans will know too._ They’ll see him and that’s definitely not okay, not even in the ballpark of okayness. He uses a hand on the back of the couch to steady himself and Andy finally opens his mouth to speak and, seriously, fuck this shit straight to hell.

Very calmly and with a grace he’s never had before in his life, Patrick turns on his heel and disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with what’s supposed to be an air of finality.

He sits on the toilet and hugs his knees to his chest, bracing his feet against the edge of toilet bowl precariously. And he’s wearing velcro shoes and probably looks all of five years old. Maybe he wishes he were five years old. He kind of wants his mom. Maybe he would text her if he didn’t think she’d worry, or if he’d thought to bring his phone into the bathroom.

The part of his mind currently obsessed with mantras starts to tell him that he’s been in here for way longer than appropriate and he needs to leave, needs to go finish warming up and be okay.

He honestly doesn’t know if he’s any closer to actually leaving the bathroom by the time someone knocks. Patrick jumps, nearly falls into the toilet bowl, and curses loudly.

“What?” he snaps, thinking he can deter Andy with pissiness and hostility, an age-old Stump avoidance tactic. It’s Joe’s groan that comes through the door though.

“Dude, what the fuck, I have got to _pee_ , motherfucker!”

It takes a moment on unsteady legs but he stands and doesn’t bother to flush before opening the door and slipping around Joe. He makes a beeline for the couch as Joe slams the door shut behind him.

He counts his breaths, but that only makes him sleepier, even if it does help calm him a little. All he has to do is raise his feet to tiptoe while he’s sitting and his legs shake all on their own. His voice is warm and his chest feels like it’s heaving enough to keep generate heat for his vocal cords forever, and he remembers that he has a guitar he can mess around with, tune once again. He’s halfway out of his seat when Pete perches himself on the arm of the couch, a safe distance away like he knows to be careful. Patrick narrows his eyes and shoots a glare towards where Andy’s sitting on a stool in the corner, eyes trained on his phone.

“Sup, man?” Pete crows, grinning down at him.

Patrick’s very glad that he just warmed up his voice, so that when he says “Nothin’,” it’s steady and even sounds like him. He’s very proud of himself. Pete only cocks his head to the side and slides down from the arm of the couch to the cushion, right beside Patrick. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s close. Pete’s leg is pressed up against his and his brain short circuits and screams _gross_ and he’s not quite sure how Pete can manage to sit pressed up to all of Patrick’s fat and not notice it (he’s just used to it, he has been dealing with Patrick for years, after all).

“Seriously, Rick,” he says, lowering his voice to conspiratorial levels and leaning his head closer to Patrick’s. Patrick’s family calls him Rick and Pete does too when he’s trying to be soothing or it’s just them in the room, and Patrick’s hit with a wave of homesickness and want to be hugged for about two years straight. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says automatically. “I’m okay, I’m fine, I’mfineI’mfine—”

And Patrick knows his inner monologue is becoming his outer monologue and he’s painfully aware that it not entirely coherent, but he can’t stop himself until Pete presses their shoulders together and cuts him off.

“Whoa, man, yeah. We’re fine. What’s wrong?” Pete ducks his head to meet Patrick’s eyes, looking utterly gentle and concerned and Patrick feels kind of like shit, remembering when their roles were all but reversed.

Patrick spares a second to think that Andy must’ve said something, because Pete’s oblivious at the best of times, and then he thinks about how he feels kind of safe with Pete sitting with him like this. He closes his eyes and exhales, long and hard, trying to get all of the bad out. He knows he still fucked up, knows he has to do better, but he’s also stopped feeling like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He inhales, trying to get some of Pete’s calm (and wow, he never thought that sentence would cross his mind).

“We’ve been at this game way too fuckin’ long for me to be getting stage fright,” he murmurs back.

“You’re golden,” Pete tells him, and when Patrick opens his eyes again Pete’s smiling instead of grinning. Patrick wants to ask what being golden has to do with nerves, but he’s too tired to ask.

“Infallible Wentzian logic.” He smiles back and Pete reaches for his glasses, folds them and puts them on the couch’s arm.

“There,” Pete declares. “Now it’s just another practice. There’s not a single person in the audience. There’s not an audience at all actually; that would be silly since there’s no security. Sorry, crew’s gonna be there, but I don’t think we could actually get them to leave unless we paid ‘em overtime.”

Patrick’s smile feels more genuine as the world blurs around the edges, softening his focus at the same time. Pete’s bright eyes are still easy to focus on, and Patrick’s heart aches when he sees Pete’s there-I-just-fixed-everything-so-ha face.

“Wentzian _genius_ , I stand corrected.” He bumps their shoulders together and leans on Pete instead of pulling away. “My hero.”

“See? There are reasons you keep me around, I knew it.”

Patrick’s eyes slide closed again and he nearly drifts off three more times before stage call. Pete sits next to him on the couch, messing around on his phone and Patrick pretends he’s keeping watch as Patrick pulls himself together. Patrick doesn’t check to see if Andy and Pete are exchanging glances, doesn’t think they are. Pete’s easy to please, and it’s not like Patrick’s never had stage fright before or like he’s technically lying tonight.

In the end, he hopes his Gretsch is still tuned from soundcheck and goes for it. Pete tries to stay close to him on stage too, but Patrick darts away when he can, when he’s not tethered to the mic stand. His legs still wobble, but Patrick dances around, sweating up a storm and thinking that he can maybe work off part of the meal he ate. He feels…not better. But he feels almost like his feet are on the ground again. His head’s in the game, and by the time Pete’s hugging him and dragging him off stage and back to the greenroom, Patrick’s already got plans and excuses forming in his head. He grins back and squeezes Pete around his middle and thinks _someday I’ll be able to hug him without disgusting him_ and he feels almost giddy. Pete’s still there with his steady presence (though it’s not quite as calm now, never is after a show). Patrick’s pulled in by his heat and wants to stay close. Pete makes the broken record thoughts stop skipping so much, which is nearly the only bad side of trying to learn some self control. If he stays with Pete, maybe it’ll be easier.

Patrick’s grinning by the time he ends up on his and Andy’s bus. He takes a whole laxative to make up for the mishap at dinner and falls into an easy, sated sleep before the engine’s even running.


	5. Nice

The thing is that forgetting to eat is pretty much Pete’s status quo. Either he’s in the middle of a depressive episode or he’s in the middle of a manic episode or really in the zone and writing the gold that’s going to keep Fall Out Boy at the top or he’s too invested in video games. In Pete’s brain, other things are simply more important than food. Patrick isn’t jealous of Pete much, not anymore at least, but that will always be a trait he wishes he could have.

The other thing about Pete is that he always has to mention the fact that Patrick eats like clockwork. Even on tour, even when it gets super inconvenient to do so, Patrick would aways go on a mission at regular intervals each day to get food. And Patrick doesn’t think that Pete’s necessarily making fun of him when he does it, but he isn’t used to the regular meals, or something. It’s part of the running commentary, which is something you just have to put up with if you want to be Pete’s friend.

Fortunately, when Patrick starts “forgetting” to eat just as much, Pete doesn’t even seem to notice. And Joe hardly ever eats actual meals, opting to low-key snack pretty constantly. So, it’s simple, really. Patrick’s not avoiding Andy, not technically. It would be fucking stupid to avoid Andy since nobody’s noticed anything, but Patrick thinks that if anybody would, it would be Andy. His looks are a little too knowing, and he suggests food to Patrick just enough for it to keep it on Patrick’s mind, which is not where he wants it.

He’s not sure why he’s trying to keep his weight loss attempts a secret, more or less, except that he’s ashamed he gained the weight back to begin with. He’s hoping he’ll be able to get rid of it without causing a fuss. Like it never happened, right?

And anyway, Pete seems pretty thrilled whenever Patrick pops in as the drivers fill up on gas and food. It doesn’t happen every day, but he probably spends about half of his afternoons on Pete and Joe’s bus. After a while it’s simply the new normal. Joe asks once to make sure Patrick and Andy aren’t fighting, and he asks tentatively because Patrick and Andy don’t always agree, but they’ve never fought before. Patrick assures him that, no, they’re not fighting, not even disagreeing, and shrugs off any other questions. It doesn’t take long for Andy to stop offering to go with Patrick to find food when they’re stopped. Patrick says no thanks, tells Andy he’s just going to pick up a burger and take it to Joe and Pete’s bus, and Andy lets it go. 

Patrick grabs a diet soda because it fills him up, makes him feel slightly nauseous on an empty stomach in a way different from the laxatives. It’s not good to drink carbonated things on days they have shows; it’s bad for his voice, but sometimes he does anyway. But on those days he always eats food, too. Something, anything, and he tries to eat after soundcheck, before he starts warming up his voice. On traveling days or resting days, he eats whatever meal the guys decide they need to eat together, though he’s careful about it. This is all greatly helped by the fact that they all get their own hotel rooms now, so when they’ve got a day off, Patrick can either go off by himself or, more often than not, lock himself in his room with his laptop and headphones. Patrick feels more hunger pains than actual hunger these days anyway. Instead of listening to what his body says, he limits himself. Five hundred calories is the max, and that’s exceptionally hard to pull off when you’re living on the road.

Patrick has got this down to a science.

Next to Pete is his favorite place, the safest place. It’s not like they’ve ever spent much time apart from each other before, not unless they were fighting, and they still sleep on different buses because Patrick can’t actually handle being around him 24/7. After he’s been awake for a couple hours, made himself work at least a little on his own bus, it’s just…it’s really nice to relax on the other one. And Pete’s not obtuse, not exactly. In fact, the problem is almost the opposite. Pete’s either hopelessly distracted or his attention is scarily acute, focus sharp, and anything else outside of that narrow scope goes undetected.

Patrick’s laying with his head in Pete’s lap. They’ve got a few good hours until they reach the venue, and Patrick’s not napping exactly, but he’s drifting. He’s a little too cold to sleep, and he’s got an insistent headache at the crown of his head. Pete’s thigh is pleasantly warm and he’s holding himself still for once, mostly quiet. Every few minutes he’ll huff out laugh and insist that Patrick “look at this! No, seriously, Patrick, are you listening? This is hilarious.” That’s okay too, though, because Patrick doesn’t really need to sleep. He feels nice laying here with the ratty blanket someone’s grandma crocheted wrapped around him and Pete’s blood pumping under his ear. Patrick smiles sleepily up at him and listens to whatever the Internet has to say, and laughs every once in a while.

Then Pete says, “Hey, man, let up, I wanna go grab some food. You good with microwaveable pizzas?”

Patrick lifts his head, but as soon as Pete stands up, he lets it drop and shakes it. “Nah, man,” he mutters around a yawn. “Not hungry.”

Pete hesitates next to the couch. “That’s what you said when we stopped for lunch too.” Patrick carefully keeps his eyes closed to appear casual. He can’t eat yet, because they haven’t done soundcheck yet, and he needs to eat closer to the show so he can actually put on a show. If he eats now then he’ll probably have to eat again, but they’ve got a day off tomorrow and they’re in Denver, so Patrick was really hoping to stop by his favorite ice cream place. But. He can’t do that if he eats twice today. He’s got it planned out, and if he doesn’t get a cone he might actually cry. He spent half an hour this morning cross-referencing calorie information online trying to figure out which website was accurate.

“I’ll eat when I wake up,” he says, doing his best half-assed attempt at a shrug even though the position makes it impossible. “Go ahead though, dude. Eat if you’re hungry.” Part of Patrick really doesn’t want to keep others from eating, even if he’s avoiding food himself, because then they’ll lose weight too and he’ll still be the fat one. The other part of Patrick’s brain really hates him for thinking that at all, but it doesn’t stop him.

He listens for Pete’s footsteps, but they don’t sound his retreat.

“Are you feeling okay?” Pete asks. Patrick’s eyes snap open.

“Of course,” he says. “I’m just exhausted. That point in the tour, I guess.” Pete nods thoughtfully.

“Sorry I kept you up. Didn’t know you were so tired.” Pete cocks his head to the side. “You should get some sleep before we get to the venue, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay,” Patrick says. He fakes another yawn and nuzzles his face into the couch cushion. After a moment, Pete walks off to his kitchenette. Patrick sighs at the loss of contact, but the seat is still a little warm, so he concentrates on leaching every ounce of heat.

Pete even comes back after a couple of minutes and sits on the end of the couch. He cards his fingers through Patrick’s hair, and Patrick’s pretty sure he’s wiping pizza grease in it, but he doesn’t have the energy right now to tell Pete to fuck off. He’s not sure he cares anyway; it feels nice. His stomach growls faintly at the smell of melted cheese and marinara, and he wonders if he brought another Diet Coke with him onto the bus. He feels a little twitchy and drawn tight, like the strings of a guitar left in his car in a Chicago winter. He also knows Pete would be able to tell if he were paying attention, and thanks his lucky stars that Pete’s just as oblivious as he’s always been.


	6. Blades on Wrists

So, the thing about Pete’s focus is that, no matter how hard it is to obtain, once you have it, it’s pretty fucking hard to dislodge his gaze. Patrick already knows this—it’s exactly how he, a sixteen-year-old drummer, ended up the lead singer of a band. This also means that once Pete thinks something is wrong, he doesn’t relent until he finds out what is wrong, even if Patrick has to make something up (something he’s had to do on more than one occasion since nothing actually was wrong). Sometimes, it makes Patrick feel like a bad friend. He thinks that’s how Pete wants people to react to him when something’s wrong, but Patrick’s always been one to take people at their word. When someone says they’re fine, Patrick’s pretty inclined to believe them unless they’ve actually got tear tracks running down their face or blood dripping from their knuckles. He supposes he’s gotten better about that with Pete, especially since Best Buy, especially since he got his head out of his ass and realized the consequences of him not doing that. But he knows he’s not as good at it as Pete is.

And now he feels like an absolute douchebag, because this is what part of him wanted and he knows it. He wanted someone to notice, but Pete isn’t noticing in the right way. He’s not saying _wow, Patrick, you look so good; you’ve lost so much weight!_ The next couple of weeks, in fact, are filled with sidelong glances from Pete and some pretty pointed looks from Andy. Joe, bless his heart, very blithely does not notice any of it (or, as Patrick actually suspects, chooses not to acknowledge any of it). With a sick stab of guilt to his gut, Patrick figures that Joe knows something’s up, can pick up on the sudden tension, but they’ve all told Joe that he overreacts. Joe’s been trying to get ahold of his compulsive need to ask people if they’re okay, and Patrick thinks he might be taking advantage of that, but it’s not like anything actually is wrong, per se.

Andy’s always been better than Pete about keeping a cool head and minding his own business. It’s usually countered by Pete complete lack of a clue, but that ship has sailed. Even though Andy and Patrick share a bus, Patrick spends too much time on the other one, worrying Joe and getting Pete’s attention. It’s a bad idea, and Patrick knows that it’s a bad idea. He just doesn’t know what a good idea would be.

There’s a chill to the air. Patrick huddles farther into his layers. It’s summer, barely 5 PM, but it’s way cooler out than it has any right to be. Even in two shirts and a cardigan, Patrick’s having a hard time feeling his fingers. They’ve got the day off and have spent it driving over a more desolate patch of Midwestern highway. It’d been declared dinnertime when the drivers had spotted the strip mall-type deal right off an exit. They still have a good couple of hours left to drive before they reach the hotel they’re staying in tonight, but Patrick’s not complaining. It feels nice to stretch his legs while everybody else is piled into the restaurant.

“Hey!”

Patrick turns around to see Pete, dressed only in a long sleeve tee and basketball shorts, walking towards him, backlit by the lowering sun. The grass is too long alongside the road, and Patrick thinks Pete’s legs must itch like crazy.

“Hey, man.” Patrick cocks his head to the side. “Aren’t you cold?”

“It’s….” Pete blinks, deflates a little. “No, Patrick. Are you?”

Patrick shrugs. He bends down and picks a long blade of the wild grass and Pete watches as Patrick starts tying knots at semi-regular intervals. After a couple of minutes, Pete says, “Come inside? Andy says the veggie burgers are pretty good, and there’s a buffalo head mounted on the wall that’s bigger than you.” Patrick thinks his friend’s smile falls notably flat.

“I’m not really hungry right now.” He tries to smooth down the blade of grass, but it curves in on itself slightly. Patrick understands the feeling.

“Patrick.”

Pete doesn’t say anything else, and Patrick realizes belatedly that Pete’s waiting for him to look up. He does, and Pete holds his gaze, pleading, searching.

“Is something…man, is something wrong?” Patrick hesitates, and Pete barrels on. “Because we have come way too damn far to not be able to talk to each other.”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says softly, placatingly. “Nothing’s wro—“

“Fucking—” Pete runs a hand through his hair, even though it’s too short for the action at the moment. “Something’s wrong,” he protests. “Patrick, something’s _wrong._ ”

“It’s not, I—”

“Bullshit,” he growls. “You’re not…you’re not you anymore, ‘Trick. You aren’t eating and I don’t think you’re sleeping, but you never move. It’s like you’re made of stone.”

“I’m not,” Patrick argues. “I’m right here. I’m still me.”

“You’re…” Pete shakes his head. “Are you depressed?” And Patrick feels _bad_ now, okay. Shit, the last thing anyone needs is to be reminding Pete of his down spikes. He’s really got to _get his shit together_.

“No, Pete,” he says quietly.

“Are you…are you sick? Have you been to a doctor? Dude, you look sick.” Pete takes a step forward and Patrick takes one back.

“I’m not sick,” he says tightly. Pete’s eyes look sad and Patrick can almost feel himself turning to stone where he stands. He blinks, just to remind himself that he can. He can move. He’s able, he’s allowed. Pete takes another step forward and Patrick chooses to stay still. He chooses to. “I’m still me.”

Pete’s hands are warm when he takes the blade of grass form his hand. He ties it around Patrick’s wrist, and Patrick stays still for him, feels the cool air and Pete’s heated skin. He looks at Pete’s hand and the veins raised there, carrying blood, life, love. Patrick looks at his own hand. He can see the bones under his sagging skin. Pete doesn’t let go of his wrist when he’s done, but his thumb strokes Patrick’s pulse. They’re both looking down at their handswristsskin when Pete whispers, “Come inside?” and Patrick retracts his hand.

“I’m not hungry,” he says resolutely. Pete’s eyes flash.

“You need to fucking eat.”

“I _know,_ ” Patrick insists. “I’m just not hungry right now. I’ll eat.”

_”Patrick.”_

“Later.” He takes a step away. Pete doesn’t follow. That’s a good sign, really. “You want anything from the store?”

“Nah. Want me to order you something? I can have them put it in a box for later if you’re not hungry now.”

Patrick definitely does not want that, because if he has to be in the vicinity of food, he knows that he will eat all of it. He will blink, and it will be gone. But this also feels like an olive branch that Pete’s extending with his hopeful and guarded eyes, and it just goes to show that they’ve grown as people. Instead of putting on his war paint and starting a battle with the tension they’re both riding, he’s trying to work with Patrick. Patrick doesn’t want to say yes, but he can’t say no. He guesses it’s a good time to be a mature adult, and even if the thought kind of makes him want to cry, he nods slowly.

“Sure, but something light, okay?”

Pete nods back once, fast, and smiles. “Yeah, okay. Light.”

Patrick’s not sure if Pete knows a heavy food from a light food, but he’ll try his luck.

“Thanks. Guess I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” Pete agrees.

They start on their way in the awkward silence generated by saying your goodbyes even though you’re still walking in the same direction. The sun is right in their eyes, and Patrick ducks his head so the brim of his hat blocks the glare. It’s shining, and in theory it’s warm, but Patrick can’t really feel it. His toes are still numb in his sneakers and the joints in his hands ache a little. All he’s got are Pete’s word that it’s not cold out and the slight tightening feeling he’s getting in his skin where the sunlight touches.

“‘Trick,” Pete says. They’re outside the door to the restaurant, and the convenience store is next door. Patrick wants to drink a Diet Coke, fill up his stomach with bubbles so it’s full by the time Pete brings him a box full of food.

He pauses and inclines his head. Pete smiles again, and it’s a little sadder this time.

“Get some sleep or something, okay? You don’t…you don’t look so great.”

“Gee, thanks.” He rolls his eyes but he’s biting the inside of his cheek. He _knows_ he doesn’t look great.

“No, I just…” Pete’s brow creases. “You’d tell me if you were sick, right?”

“Dude, I’m kind of a bitch when I’m sick.” He laughs, makes it sound normal.

“Dude, you’re kind of a bitch all the time,” Pete says, but he’s grinning too.

“Fuck off.” Patrick’s chuckle feels real, if a little weak. “Go eat, Pete. I’m gonna take a nap.”

“Fucking off now,” he declares. “Sweet dreams.”

Patrick grins and walks away. He’s still not warm, but he twists the blade of grass around his wrist and wonders how long it’ll take for it to decay and fall off. He knows it’ll happen faster if he keeps worrying at it, but he’s not sure he can help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying writing this so far, and I really hope you guys are enjoying reading it half as much. Thanks for sticking with me up 'til this point!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically part of the last chapter. It's also your consolation chapter since I haven't written much this week. School is kind of killing me, and I've got a seminar paper due Monday (that makes me want to curl up and cry). Sorry, guys!

Patrick is lying in his bunk. He’s not hiding. Really. He’s pretty sure everyone (read: Pete and Andy; Patrick’s pretty sure Joe’s actually on his own bus) knows exactly where he is, or the bus wouldn’t be moving. Surely they wouldn’t leave him at a strip mall miles from the nearest town. Patrick’s facing the window despite the fact that the light leaking through the curtains is giving him a headache.

That’s where he is when Pete finds him, curled on his side with a half-emptied bottle of Diet Coke against his knee.

“Patrick,” he says softly as he slides open the curtain. “Patrick?”

Patrick doesn’t move, and he breathes deeply, evenly, counting out a beat to follow in his head. Thirty-two bars later, Pete draws the curtain again and retreats, taking the smell of warm bread and oil with him. _Something light,_ Patrick thinks. _Yeah right._

He’s just this side of too-cold-but-falling-asleep-anyway because the sun isn’t shining directly into his window anymore when he hears voices. Not, like, crazy, inside-his-head voices, but human voices. Pete and Andy voices, and it’s odd. Patrick’s usually on the other bus. Hearing Pete and Andy voices on his own bus when the engine is rumbling the thin mattress under his head is weird, and Patrick’s stomach is gurgling in response to all of the bubbles, and Patrick’s floating.

Andy’s voice drifts back to the bunks. He’s saying, “We can’t crowd him. That’s never once helped a situation with Patrick and it’s not going to help him now.”

Patrick thinks it’s vaguely rude of them to be talking about him like he can’t hear it, but he remembers that he was still. He pretended to be asleep, so they don’t think he’s listening. He notes that everything feels distant right now, that he’s living his life as if he were reading a book. Just there to witness it, not completely in his body. _Good,_ he thinks. _I don’t like it there. It’s bad and I can’t get it to do what I want. Trapped, trapped in my head. Trapped._ The Pete voice drifts back to him too, and Patrick’s gut twists sharply towards the nauseous end of the light headed spectrum.

“But he’s not telling us,” Pete replies. Hisses. “What the fuck do you want me to do? There’s something _wrong_ with him.”

Patrick clenches his jaw. Pete’s not supposed to think that. It hurts. It’s not wrong, but it hurts, and it’s not supposed to be coming out of Pete’s mouth. No, no. No. Literally anyone but Pete. That’s how it goes. Why now? How did Pete finally get on the same page as the rest of the world? What—

“He’s probably just as freaked out about it as we are,” Andy says. Patrick’s forehead crinkles in the emptiness of his bunk. “You know how he gets when he’s sick, man. It’s—“

“And it’s nothing like this!” Patrick can’t actually hear Pete take a breath—their voices are only barely reaching him over the sounds of the road—but he imagines it. Sure enough, when he starts to speak again, it’s lower. “If he’s sick then it’s not a cold. Something serious is fucking wrong, Hurley. I just—he won’t _talk_ about it. He’s trying to hide it.”

There’s a long bout of quiet that filters into Patrick’s bunk, during which he thinks—rather pathetically—that he hadn’t been doing _that_ terrible of a job of hiding it. Jesus, Pete was supposed to be the oblivious one (even though he still is, at least a little, since apparently both Pete and Andy think he’s not been eating because he’s sick, but that’s not the point). Where’s Patrick supposed to spend his days now? He doesn’t want either Andy or Pete breathing down his neck and trying to take care of him. He doesn’t need that. The very thought makes Patrick want to crawl out of his own skin. But he sort of wants to do that anyway.

He needs to fix this, obviously. Patrick hadn’t realized how sloppy he’s gotten, or how much he’d let show. But he’s tired. In all practicality, he should go get the box of food Pete tried to bring him, and he should feed it out a crack in his window. Except. Except that he’s _tired_ and they’re on the highway anyway; the window would make too much noise.

Patrick falls asleep for real before he can convince himself one way or another. He wakes up to Pete telling him they’re at the hotel. Pete’s too-happy-too-smiley to cover up any other emotions, completely wired and bouncing around. He thinks Pete’s forgotten about the food. So he grabs it himself, declares that he’s hungry, and Pete looks incredibly relieved all the way through the lobby. They all ride the same elevator up, but get off on different floors. Patrick’s room is 513, and he leaves the leftover box next to a vending machine around the corner from 530.

513 is decidedly too cold, so Patrick turns the heat up and runs water through the mini coffeemaker for some tea. Decaffeinated tea, even though he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to sleep (hotel or not) after crashing on the bus. He doesn’t quite feel up to showering right now. In the morning, he tells himself. The light from the TV only brings his headache back. An hour of restless shifting and activity-searching later, he ends up with the window open, the heat turned up even more, lying on his side. The push and waver of the breeze is nice, kind of almost alive, and the noises are too. Distant and far away. He thinks of texting Pete about it, asking him to come hang out—Pete eats shit like this right up, the hidden wonders of the world that most other people just wouldn’t get—but he can’t think of anything to say. Well, he can, but it mostly consists of how he’s free-floating, how Pete should maybe hold him down before the city’s heartbeat takes him away and he flies out the window. Patrick’s not the poet, and the sentiment would come across wrong. He knows it would. So he just doesn’t say anything at all.

All he needs to do is remind himself to breathe. He reminds himself to breathe and tell himself that the floating feeling won’t last. It’s just because he hasn’t eaten and he’s alone, but it means he’s lighter. Lighter is good, that’s what he wants, so he sucks it up and hangs on to a pillow like it’s an anchor. He doesn’t need Pete to hold him down. He doesn’t need anyone because, logically, people don’t float away no matter how many hours it’s been since they’ve swallowed something more than tea.

Then again, if he’s looking at it logically, pillows don’t make good anchors either.


	8. Anchored and Sinking

Patrick feels blessedly anchored in the morning. He stays in bed for a long time, milking the feeling, and it’s almost noon by the time he convinces himself that he really needs to take a shower.

The hotel has amazing water pressure, which he really wants to be able to enjoy, but it doesn’t get nearly as warm as he needs it to. He frowns at the faucet, turned all the way up, and suppresses a shiver.

Despite the temperature issues, Patrick gets dizzy after only a few minutes, the skin on his shoulders bright pink where the water hits. He does a poor job of washing his hair in his haste, he knows, but he doesn’t really care. They’re on tour anyway, so fuck it, he’s just going to get disgusting the second he’s out of the shower anyway. He doesn’t even bother to wash his body at all, though he does stand in the spray for a few more minutes, dreading the inevitably-freezing air.

When he actually does get out—one towel around his hips and the other clutched around his shoulders—he thinks he’s getting a headache…except that it doesn’t actually hurt and the pounding is coming from outside his skull. 

It takes an embarrassingly-long time to figure out that someone is knocking on his door.

“Hold on!” he calls.

A very muffled and exasperated, “Dude!” filters through the door and Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Just let me put some clothes on!”

“I’ve seen you shirtless before, Stump, just lemme in!” Pete says.

“Yeah, right,” Patrick mumbles, too low for Pete to hear. “Not today.”

He throws on the cleanest-looking, least-stiff clothes he can find, disappointed when his pants slip down his hips. It’s been too long since they’ve gotten to do laundry, and all of his clothes are getting tremendously stretched out. He grabs the belt from pants he wore last night and goes to open the door.

“Dude,” Patrick says, because Pete looks a little frantic.

“Dude,” he echoes, “since when do you not answer the phone?”

“Since I was in the shower?” Patrick raises an eyebrow and Pete lets out a huff.

“Wanna order room service?”

Patrick considers it. It’s got to be almost one o’clock by now, and they’ve got a show tonight. And Pete’s apparently been calling him, and standing outside his door for who knows how long. And Patrick’s been doing a horrible job of just about everything, so he nods.

They pile onto the bed with crossed legs and the room service menu. Patrick thinks he takes too long to decide what he wants, and what he wants is a three-egg veggie omelette with no cheese (he feels uneasy about someone else making his food, not putting the right amounts of eggs or vegetables in, or maybe forgetting that he doesn’t want cheese, though he’s found that specific instructions usually make him feel slightly better about it), but Pete just gives him a look before calling it in. An omelette, along with fresh fruit, a muffin basket, a platter of bacon, and a smoothie. Patrick stops breathing for a moment, because _holy shit that is so much food and it had all better be for Pete, what the fuck, what the absolute fuck._

Pete channel surfs after he hangs up and Patrick makes a pot of coffee, checks his phone—three missed calls from Pete, but a surprising lack of texts—and effectively works himself into a frenzy by the time the food arrives.

He takes his plate carefully and props it up in his lap, coffee on the nightstand next to him. He cuts the omelette in half right away and thinks _130_. Pete’s watching the news and Patrick keeps an ear on it while he eats. The food makes a warm pit form in his stomach, and some of the chill from the shower finally recedes. When his designated half of the omelette is gone, he cuts up the rest and pushes it to the outer reaches of his plate. He unfolds his napkin, puts it over his plate, places his fork on top, and makes himself settle for leaching the heat from the rest of his coffee.

Pete sticks around all afternoon, and Patrick pretends he’s not hovering. It’s fairly easy, and mostly like hanging out, and Patrick’s free to stay curled around a Diet Coke and criticize the Lifetime movie Pete settles on. Pete feigns hurt, and maybe becomes genuinely offended after a while because Patrick is a downright bitch today, irritable and angry at the mostly-full basket of muffins mocking him from the desk.

The day passes faster than most, and before he knows it, they’ve gone through the motions of packing and have been shepherded to the venue.

Backstage gets louder and more chaotic the closer it gets to showtime. Soundcheck manages to bring his headache back and he switches from coffee to tea as he warms up his voice. Pete stops looming around the fifth time Patrick tells him to fuck off. All around, it’s painfully normal. Patrick can predict every conversation, could write the Backstage Script. He knows his lines by heart, has lived this day a thousand times, and still feels like a bad understudy of himself. Sometimes, Patrick amazes even himself.

The show starts and his skin melts under the lights and the eyes. It’s one of the good shows, where there’s no distinction between the audience and the band. Patrick feels like he can barely be heard for all the people singing the words. So he just sings louder, with an abandon he rarely obtains, and stomps hard enough to make his ankle twinge in protest. And it’s so _good_. The guys all feel it too, Patrick can tell; it’s in the air and encasing his bones and he never wants to stop feeling like this. He willingly lives through that scene backstage every day just for the shows like this, just so he might feel like this again.

With three songs left, he feels heavy. Not weak, but like his guitar, the microphone, his own limbs are just heavier than they should be. It’s not necessarily pleasant, but it’s kind of hard to focus on that as well as the songs, so he just works to remember the words. He closes his eyes and blasts through the next ten minutes, and by the time they hit the last song, the blood is rushing in his ears and he’s warmer than he’s been in weeks. Sweat is being wrung from him, and the crowd seems far away, and he’s hit with the knowledge that he’s going to pass the fuck out. On stage.

He breathes deeply and this is the bridge, they’re close, it’s so close to the end. He goes for a high note, reaches blindly for it and hopes he hits it, and he stops playing because his fingers are numb on the frets. Joe can’t play two parts at once, but he’s good at making it sound like he is. He knows that Joe must be shooting him looks by now, but he doesn’t turn to check. Patrick takes a moment to curse himself for writing the end of the song with so much power behind it, and then he takes a moment to silently thank Pete for being the fucking frontman so Patrick doesn’t have to thank the crowd for coming out tonight.

His vision is starting to go and he can’t feel his body but he stumbles after the guys anyway. He can’t feel his lungs, doesn’t know if he’s getting any breath at all. When they’re out of the view of the crowd, Patrick tries to say Pete’s name…and fails miserably. Nothing’s cooperating, but he manages to bump into Pete when he pauses ahead of Patrick. He wraps his arms around Pete’s neck and clings, buries his face in Pete’s shoulder. Now that he’s pressed up against something steady, he can feel how much he’s shaking.

Pete’s arms close around his waist immediately, and Patrick lets himself go limp. Pete shouts—and if he actually says any words they’re lost on Patrick—and backs his friend up to the wall so he can slide down it and sit on the ground.

“Patrick, Patrick, what’s wrong?” Pete asks in a rush. Questions continue to flow from his mouth, and Patrick squeezes his eyes shut against a wave of vertigo.

“Dizzy,” he gasps.

Pete puts one hand on either side of his face, and that….helps. Everything stops spinning after a few seconds and Patrick cracks his eyes open enough that Pete sends him a concerned smile.

“You okay, man?” he asks quietly. Patrick’s vision is fizzling around the edges like TV static, but he’s hearing everything normally again instead of through a tunnel. He reaches up and grabs Pete’s wrists, and he can feel the skin under his fingertips. He nods, breathes. Pete just keeps rubbing at his jaw. It feels good, and Patrick’s eyes slip closed again.


End file.
